"A nack!  A nack!  A nack!  We hav’en!  We hav’en!  We hav’en!"

Three times the rite was performed, and the rose-light, that so soon dies, had faded away, though no one could have told the actual moment of its passing.  A vibrant dusk, that to eyes still glamour-ridden seemed full of millions of little, pricking points of light, permeated the world, and in their harmonious-coloured clothes the people mingled with the soft grey-green of the pasture, only their faces and hands gleamed out a few tones paler.

With the fall of the billhooks fell solemnity, and men, women and children ran wildly hither and thither, shouting, singing, and breaking out into rough dances.

A new and blissful excitement tingled through Ishmael.  When the labourers had shouted he had dropped Phoebe’s hand and shouted with them, flinging up his arms.  The glamorous light, the sense of something primitive and vital that the ceremony expressed, and the stir at the pulses caused by the sight of many people moved to do the same thing at the same moment, went to his head.  He ran about singing and leaping like the rest, but keeping a little away from them, and quite suddenly there came to him for the first time that consciousness of pleasure which marks man’s enjoyment off from the animal’s.  Hitherto, in his moments of happiness, he had not paused to consider the matter, but merely been happy as a puppy is when it plays in the sun.  Now, suddenly, he stopped still, and stood looking at the distant blackthorn hedge that made a dark network against the last gleam in the west.

“I am happy?  I am being happy!” he said to himself, and he turned this consciousness over in his mind as he would have turned a sweet in his mouth.  Ever afterwards the memory of that moment’s realisation was connected for him with a twisted line of hedge and a background of pale greenish sky.  He stared at the distorted hedgerow that stood out so clearly, and to him this moment was so vividly the present that he did not see how it could ever leave off....  “This is now ...” he thought; “how can it stop being now?” And the shouting and the still air and the definite look of that hedge all seemed, with himself as he was and felt at that moment, to be at the outermost edge of time, suspended there for ever by that extreme vividness....

And then Phoebe ran up to him and dragged him off to where Sam Lenine stood examining some of the ears he had picked on his way past the sheaves.  The miller took the toll of one twelfth of the farmer’s grist, so Sam studied the ears with care.  Owing to the drought the corn was very short in the straw, but that was not Sam’s part of the business, and he nodded his head approvingly over the quality of the ear.